Dudley's parents doted on him horrendously for the first few months of his life, though probably just about as much as they had the first go around. Possibly even more so because he "refused to latch" out of sheer embarrassment, and it took him a few weeks to get used to the fact that he was supposed to scream whenever he was hungry in the middle of the night, or he would miss more than one feeding.
His mum, especially, was always bragging to the neighbors about how quiet he was and how little trouble he gave them, her "sweet boy." Some of the other mothers looked bitterly jealous at these revelations, and honestly Dudley couldn't blame them after spending a few teatimes bundled into the same playpen as a squalling, screaming Piers Polkiss, still rat-faced and scrawny even as an infant.
For the most part, he didn't have as much trouble as he might have assumed that first day. His parents were younger and somewhat less bitter than they'd been when last he saw them. He was weak and tired almost all the time, so he looked upon it all as a sort of convalescence. He couldn't walk or crawl or even lift his head most of the time, so of course he wouldn't be able to feed himself or go to the bathroom himself and would have to be carried all the time.
This attitude didn't always help very much, especially when his diet consisted entirely of "mother's milk" and he learned he couldn't really control most of his bodily functions. Especially vomiting. It wasn't really sickness though, just a sort of inability to keep all his food from flowing back up his throat sometimes. He'd gotten quite good at avoiding getting it on his clothing, once he'd learn that it didn't always necessitate an immediate change. Also at aiming at Aunt Marge whenever she came to visit. Her tweed was rather scratchy.
The biggest difficulty was boredom, actually. It was fine for the first few months, when he was mostly sleeping whenever he wasn't being fed or bathed. But as he slowly gained more awareness and more control over lifting his head, he quickly lost interest in many of the baby toys placed for his enjoyment. He quickly learned to show interest in the small books he discovered at teatimes with other infants and small children in the neighborhood, and expressed excitement whenever one of his parents read to him, especially if it was from the newspaper or a book they were reading themselves. Vernon, especially, had taken to reading him raunchy novels and the more gory news stories, waving it off as "he doesn't understand anything yet, he doesn't know what I'm saying!"
When he was about three months old, Petunia received a letter from an owl. He squealed in excitement from his position on the floor of the kitchen in the portable bassinet Petunia placed him in as she went about doing housework. She glanced warily at him as she took the letter from the owl and quickly broke the seal to read it. Dudley couldn't quite make out her expression as she read it, but she moved to a drawer and pulled out a pen to jot something down on the back of the parchment before stuffing it back into the envelope and handing it back to the bird, latching the window shut again as soon as it took off.
Petunia sighed heavily for a moment, leaning against the counter like she wouldn't be able to stand if she didn't have support. Dudley gurgled enquiringly at her, and she smiled tiredly before moving towards him and scooping him up.
"Mummy's been very silly, Diddy-dums. But Aunty Lily is coming to visit! And baby Harry! Horrible common name, that, but oh well. Lily's always had rather simple tastes." Dudley squealed again, though he wouldn't have been able to name a tone if asked.
Harry was coming. And Lily, who wasn't dead yet. But she would be, wouldn't she, because Dudley knew some of what went on in his lifetime. Knew from the papers he'd fished out of the bin in the park where Harry thought he wouldn't be caught tossing them out. Harry was special. He was "chosen." By that dark lord thingy or by fate or by God, Dudley didn't know, but everyone in Harry's world sure as hell did.
When Lily came to visit, it was in a lumpy grey jumper and brown pants and her bright red hair pulled back into a frizzy ponytail, and she was still one of the most beautiful people Dudley had ever seen. Harry was bundled up in a blue blanket and tinier than Dudley had thought possible, only a few weeks old and blue eyes already starting to melt into startling green. Dudley was placed on his stomach on a blanket beside a sleeping Harry, and he held his head up to look at him. Harry had a scrunched up little face and a large amount of soft black hair that curled up at the ends. Dudley tried to reach out to pet Harry's face, partly to try and find some resemblance to the Harry he knew and partly because it was something other children had done to him frequently, and he had taken to emulating them for observers' sakes.
He ended up losing his balance and dropping his head onto Harry's arm, which startled the other baby badly and caused him to start crying. Lily just laughed and lifted Harry to shush him, and Petunia's nose only wrinkled slightly at the noise.
At one point Dudley found himself being held by Lily as Petunia went to go get some tea, and he stared hard into her eyes that were just like Harry's, hoping to convey that she had so little time left, that she should be spending it wisely.
"You've got grandmother's mouth," she told him mock-seriously. "And Tuney's looks." She smiled then.
"Good boy." She murmured. "Your father looks like a troll."
When Petunia came back into the room, stilling at the sight of her son in her sister's arms, Lily turned towards her. "He's perfect, Tuney. Truly."
Petunia gave Lily a tentative smile, but somehow the meeting still ended with Petunia screaming at Lily to get out and Harry wailing at the top of his lungs, and the next time Dudley saw Harry he had come to stay.
